


lead us not into temptation

by ineffable_after_all



Series: Thy Kingdom Come [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A love Story, Demon Dean Winchester, Dubious Consent, Knight of Hell Dean Winchester, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Priest Sam Winchester, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffable_after_all/pseuds/ineffable_after_all
Summary: Sam has had his own parish for no more than six months when a demon begins to haunt his church.He feels Dean smile against his skin, right at his jaw. The hands on his hips are like a vice. In his ear, Dean whispers, “I’ve always thought you looked real good on your knees, Father.”
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Thy Kingdom Come [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026777
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122





	lead us not into temptation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cerberuss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberuss/gifts).



Sam has one picture of his family. 

It’s old. Really old by now, honestly. The colors are faded and the corners are curled from the amount of times he’s run his fingers over it. He’s never been much of an artist, but he thinks if somebody gave him a pencil and told him to draw it from memory, he’d manage in a heartbeat. 

There was a time not all that long ago when he’d wanted to burn it. The people staring back at him with happy smiles and loving eyes - Sam doesn't know them. He’ll never know them. And they never got the chance to know him. What would it have been like to grow up and _have_ that? Would he have felt better for it? More human? More _clean?_

The awful, betrayed feeling he has nursed since he was old enough to understand loss has eaten away at him over the years, and Sam feels a hole where he thinks a family ought to sit. 

“They didn’t leave you because they wanted to, Sam,” Pastor Jim told him time and time again, voice patient and the hand on top of Sam’s unruly hair kind. “Death is not a goodbye, only a farewell for now. One day, you’ll see them again. God has plans for us all.” 

Sam wants to believe him. He wants to believe that he survived the fire that consumed his family for a reason. He wants to believe that he can carry with him something better than the bitterness that clings like a second skin. 

He wants to believe in God’s plan.

When he turns twenty-five, Sam follows in the footsteps of his adoptive father and becomes a priest. It is not the culmination of all his life long dreams, but it is the purest expression of faith Sam can imagine offering, and so he puts his hand to the Bible and he does not let himself look back. 

At his request, Sam is appointed to a small church outside an even smaller town several hours away from any of the worldly temptations of the big cities. There’s no bars and a single dinner on the main road; the sole stoplight in the town square is perpetually green. It’s the kind of place where only people chased by personal ghosts take up residence, and Sam knows every parishioner by name before he’s even there a month. 

“You’ve made the right choice, son,” Pastor Jim says when Sam calls to let him know how he’s settling in. “I can think of no safer place for you.” 

Sam doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but Pastor Jim says things like that sometimes; always worried about some unseen evil laying greedy hands on Sam. Over the years, Sam has learned to stop asking questions. For a man as peaceful and serene as Pastor Jim, he can sure be tight lipped when he wants to be. 

(Sam sometimes worries if maybe Pastor Jim _knows_ about the ugly part of Sam he tries his best to hide - the part that feels venomous and unclean; empty in its desire for an acceptance he doesn’t even know he’s looking for.) 

Sam likes his town. He likes his church. He likes his parishioners. He likes being a priest. 

He does not know if he likes his life. He tries not to think about it too much. 

Sam has been leading his own church for six months when he comes home one night to find his front door unlocked. He pauses on the porch, keys in his hand as he watches the screen door sway slightly in the wind. There is a spare key under the planter by the steps, but when he checks it’s still there. All the same, the door handle gives easily. 

He hesitates. He should call the police. He knows the sheriff by name - knows, thanks to confession, that he’s fiercely devoted to his work to a worrying degree and would be here in a heartbeat. 

Sam doesn’t own a cellphone. It’s an unnecessary luxury for a priest like him. The only phone he has is inside, and his nearest neighbor is the church itself that he walks to every morning, grateful for the brisk air. It’s twenty minutes by foot or five by car. 

Sam doesn’t own a car either. 

Inside, he hears the clatter of somebody in his kitchen. Sam tucks his keys back into his pocket and steps inside. 

The lights are all off. The hallway is dim, painted only with the watery rays leaking in the smudged windows from the setting sun. There’s the sound of his fridge closing and a voice he does not recognize humming cheerfully. Sam thinks he recognizes the tune as Led Zeppelin, but he can’t be sure. 

He follows the sound of the song down the hall to his kitchen. 

It’s harder to see in here. The blinds are pulled closed and most of the room is in shadows. Sam leans against the doorway and squints, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He sees the unsteady outline of his cabinets, his table. On the wall beside him, his phone is hanging limply off the receiver, swaying at the end of the cord. 

By the sink, the shadowy silhouette of a figure looms, washing Sam’s dirty dishes like an indulgent housewife. 

Sam stares. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“Welcome home,” says the stranger without so much as turning around. His voice is low, rough, and utterly foreign to Sam. “Dinner’s in the oven now.” 

“What are you doing in my house?” Sam asks, which seems as good a question as any. 

There’s the clink of a dish being set in the drying rack and then the gurgle of a plug being pulled from the drain. The stranger turns around, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder, but it’s too dark for Sam to make out his face. He sees a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and a hint of fine stubble. “Would you like to eat now or later? It should be about done. You’re having roast.” 

Sam keeps calm by virtue of many years of faithfully praying to a being he’s not even sure he believes in. His heart is unsteady in his chest, an echo against his ribs with every beat. 

“How did you get in my house?” he repeats. 

The man turns his back to him, opening the oven and bathing the kitchen in a gold glow as he pulls a heavy tray from inside. For a moment, there’s just enough light for Sam to actually _see_ him; short brown hair, green eyes, and a face handsome enough to be carved on any of the statues that guard the steps of Sam’s church. 

Sam has never seen him before a day in his life, but there’s something familiar about him all the same. His heart _aches._

The oven shuts off and with it the light. The tray is set gently down on Sam’s table between stacks of wobbling books he keeps meaning to put away but never quite remembers to. 

“I hope you like lamb,” says his intruder, voice like velvet. “Have a seat, Sammy.” 

Sam stays where he’s standing, watching as the man turns around to fish the good carving set Pastor Jim had given him last Christmas from his cutlery drawer. The wicked sharpness of the blade is a chilling shadow in the darkness. Sam’s heart is in his throat. His legs won’t move. 

He wonders if this is where he dies. The thought does not bother him as much as it should. The empty hole in his gut that he’s nursed for twenty-five years feels inexplicably tight. “Are you going to kill me?” 

“Kill you?” The man looks up at him, and Sam thinks he can faintly see the curl of his lip. “No, that’s the last thing I want. Not after all this time.” 

Sam frowns. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Sit down, Sammy.” 

Sam does not. 

“If I have to ask a third time, you won’t like it,” the man says lightly, and begins carving the roast. The knife glides through the meat like butter. 

Sam swallows and, after a considerable pause, peels his feet from the floor. He shuffles forward awkwardly, reaching out a fumbling hand to snag the back of the nearest chair. His vision has adjusted enough that he can mostly see what he’s doing, and he sinks down cautiously, directly across the table from the stranger. 

“That’s more like it,” he says, tone pleasant. He shifts the lamb onto a waiting plate, accompanied by perfectly roasted vegetables, and settles it in front of Sam. The meat has been carved into thin slivers with expert precision and Sam knows that there are very few professions that could give somebody such control of a knife, and he does not believe for a moment that this man is a simple butcher. “You haven’t been eating well lately. You’re looking like skin and bones, Sammy. It’s not good for you.” 

“That’s not my name,” Sam says stiffly. 

“What would you prefer then?” the stranger asks, amused. “Father Samuel?” 

“That’s what my parishioners call me, yes.” 

“Oh Sammy,” the stranger sighs, reaching out to cup Sam’s chin. His touch is like ice and his grip iron. When Sam looks into his eyes, there’s only blackness looking back. “I’m not just one of your parishioners.” 

Sam thinks he’s going to be sick. 

The grip on his chin loosens, pulling away. “Eat your food.” 

Sam has never been less hungry in all his life. He looks down to his plate and, with shaky hands, picks up the accompanying knife and fork. The stranger rattles free the chair across from him, joining him at the table. Sam licks his lips and asks, “Aren’t you going to eat too?” 

“Maybe later,” the man says, noncommittal. “Are you going to make me keep repeating myself? I’ve never been patient, but I’m trying. I don’t want to have to hurt you.” 

Sam doesn’t want that either. He sinks his fork into the meat and brings it to his mouth. He hesitates, can’t bring himself to eat it.

“I haven’t poisoned it,” says his dinner guest. “I told you, I don’t want to kill you.” 

It doesn’t sound like a lie. It probably could be still. Sam has never met somebody who breaks into a stranger’s house to cook them dinner out of the goodness in their heart. This whole situation reeks of serial killer vibes. 

_What’s the worst thing that could happen?_ Sam asks himself. _You die?_

Sam thinks about that and feels nothing. The emptiness inside of him twinges, aching to be full, and Sam looks the stranger in the eye and slips the fork into his mouth. 

Across the table, the stranger’s eyes flash again and he smiles, something fond and hungry. “That’s it, Sammy,” he purrs. “Let me take care of you now, okay?” 

Heat crawls up the back of Sam’s neck. He looks back to his plate. Slowly, bite by bite, he eats the whole meal. He does not look up once. His heart hammers like a drum all the while, and he can feel the uncomfortable prickle of eyes following every move he makes. 

When his plate is clean, Sam sets down his cutlery and says, “Thank you. That was… good.” 

“You’re welcome,” says the man, and then gets to his feet, scooping Sam’s plate up to ferry to the sink. Sam stays where he is, watching carefully as the man washes that too, adding it to the pile of gleaming dishes. 

It’s almost domestic. It turns Sam’s stomach. 

Finally, Sam manages to dig up a scrap of courage and asks, voice as level as he can make it, “Will you tell me who you are?” 

“So you can report me to the police?” asks the man as he turns around again. He leans against the bench, hands clenched lightly on the edge. 

Sam’s purses his mouth. “I haven’t yet.” 

“I haven’t given you the opportunity.” 

“I don’t call the police on people who need help,” Sam says. 

The man smiles. “Do you think I need help, Sammy?” 

“I can’t imagine why you broke into the house of the local priest only to cook him dinner otherwise,” Sam says softly. “It’s my duty to guide those in need.” 

“Need, huh?” The man laughs. He detaches from the bench, sweeping closer. “What is it you think I need?” 

“I can’t answer that,” Sam says. “That’s something you have to tell me.” 

“How generous of you,” he says. “What if I think it’s something you’re not going to like?” 

Over the years, Sam has perfected many strategies for dealing with reticent confessors holding their secrets deep. A lot of being a priest is gently levering open the cage of somebody’s ribs to untangle the troubles caught around their heart. Sam’s good at it. He knows he is. He can pry the most awful of wrongs from the most stubborn of people with very little effort at all. 

People seem to _want_ to tell him things; compelled by his sincerity and gentle voice. It gives him an unfair advantage in most situations. 

Looking into the stranger’s eyes, Sam does not feel advantaged now. Instead, he feels like somebody has stuck a crowbar in his ribcage, trying to break through, chase out the emptiness - the _dirtiness -_ he’s worked so hard to hide. 

The man’s eyes are so dark. Sam can’t see any hint of that green he’d glimpsed at all. _It’s the shadows,_ he says to himself. _It’s nothing but the shadows._

He swallows. “Does it matter what I want?” 

The man makes a contemplative noise. His fingers tap on the back of a chair. “I used to think so,” he says conversationally. “I thought that I would have done anything you’d wanted, if you’d known to ask.” 

Sam’s tongue feels like lead in his mouth. “Do… we know each other?” 

The tapping stops abruptly. For a terrifying moment, Sam is worried that he’s asked the wrong question. And then the man laughs again. Shivers chase down Sam’s spine. “Sure,” says the stranger. “You could say that.” 

It had felt like a black-and-white sort of question, and Sam doesn’t know what to do with such a grey answer. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all. 

Silence lingers, long and sharp. The man is staring at him, Sam can feel it, but he can’t bring himself to look back. He stares at some point over his shoulder and thinks about who would lead his parish if he didn’t show up for church tomorrow; how long it’d take them to find his body, who would call Pastor Jim, who would feed the stray dogs that roamed the neighborhood, hungry and yearning. 

Sam wonders if the world will even notice he’s gone. 

There’s the rustle of moving fabric, and Sam looks back just in time to see the stranger has rounded the table, settling a hip on the edge beside Sam. He reaches out a hand, and Sam flinches, but he simply cards his hand through his hair, fingers deceptively soft. 

“Sammy,” he says, voice low. “You look scared. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want to take care of you, okay? Just wanna look out for you.” 

Sam sits statue-still, baffled. _Are you a stalker?_ is probably too direct, but Sam comes close to asking it all the same. He only barely manages to bite it back. The fingers in his hand are positively reverent, brushing his hair from his face. After a moment of wrestling, Sam asks, “Why?” 

“Why what?” the stranger asks. 

“Why do you want to… take care of me? Do any of this?” 

The hand in his hair pauses, cupping the back of Sam’s head before sliding down to rest on the nape of his neck. A thumb brushes just below his hairline, and it takes everything Sam has not to shudder. “I think that’s another one of those questions you won’t like the answer to.” 

More bravely than he really feels, Sam asks, “I think maybe you should tell me anyway.” 

The hand on his neck squeezes hard enough to make him gasp, and Sam goes to jerk away but it softens again, petting down his back like soothing a startled pet. “Not yet,” the stranger says. “I’ll decide that. You don’t know what’s good for you, Sammy.” 

Sam grits his teeth, but he can still feel the ghost of the pressure bearing down on him and he keeps his mouth shut. 

The hand on his back lingers a moment longer before pulling away. The stranger straightens up. He’s near enough now that Sam can smell him clearer than he can see him in the darkness; the sharp bite of motor oil and cheap aftershave. There’s something else there too, something earthier, and he frowns, struggling to place it and coming up blank. 

“I have to leave now, but you’ll see me again soon,” he says.

Sam’s heart turns over at the thought. Again, he can’t think of how to reply, so he sits quietly, worried about stirring up the apparently turbulent moods of the man next to him. There’s safety in silence. 

“What, no goodbye? No thank you? Very ungrateful of you.” 

“Thank you,” Sam says stiffly. “Goodbye.” 

The man snorts. “Well damn, Sammy. Don’t sprain anything with all that sincerity.” 

Before Sam can think of a reply to that, a hand brushes his chin again. He sits frozen as it curls around jaw, tilting his face to the side so he’s staring at the far wall. The man bends down and, so softly Sam could almost miss it, brushes a kiss against his cheek, lingering and cool on Sam’s overheated skin. He sighs in what sounds like contentment, fingers squeezing tight, before he lets go and stands up. 

“Soon,” he says again, a promise, and sweeps past Sam and out the door. 

Sam stays where he sits for a long time, waiting for the front door to open but hearing nothing. Finally, he manages to find the willpower to rise to his feet and trail out in the stranger’s footsteps. He searches the house from top to bottom, and finds no evidence at all that anybody has been in Sam’s house. 

If not for the memory of his unlocked door, Sam would have thought he imagined the whole thing. 

He goes back to the kitchen and sits down in the dark. He stares at the phone where it hangs forlorn from the hook. Twice, he nearly gets up to reach for it, but both times he stops himself although he doesn’t quite know why. 

Sam can remember the stranger’s hands on his skin, the possessive cruelty in his eyes. 

He remembers the motor oil, the aftershave, and the strange earthy scent he’s just now placed. 

Sam stays in his kitchen for most of the night, and the smell of blood stays with him. 

\--

For a week, Sam does not see him again. 

He goes to church and leads his congregation, reading the Bible unwaveringly from his pulpit and taking confessions without batting an eye. If any of his parishioners suspect anything is at all wrong with Father Samuel, they do not think to ask. 

Sam doesn’t know how they can not know. Although Sam tries his best to act like nothing has changed, he feels jumpy in his own skin, conscious of every passing shadow and shoulders clenched tight every time he enters an empty room. He feels like he’s being watched, although he cannot find any such evidence at all.

 _How can you not see?_ he thinks every time somebody smiles blandly at him and turns away. _How can you not see that the way the whole world spins has tilted on a whole new axis?_

He doesn’t like going home anymore. He’d never liked it much to begin with, honestly, but the time he spends at the church stretches and stretches until eventually he doesn’t return home until the early hours of the morning. 

One such night, Sam is just finishing his rounds, dousing candles likely to become a fire hazard in his absence and sliding Bibles back into the hold of their respective pews. The church doors are closed but unlocked still. Sam’s not expecting any visitors; it’s long past the appropriate hour for general visits and Sam feels comfortably alone in his sanctuary. 

Or he does until he hears a voice say, “Wow, this place really is a dump, you know?” 

Sam stiffens. Slowly, he straightens back up, Bible clutched to his chest with one hand and the other holding tight to the pew he’d been tidying. He turns and finds exactly what he’d been afraid of staring back at him. 

“You…” Sam’s at a loss for words. With nothing else to guide him, he falls back on the familiarity of routine. “Can I help you with anything?” 

Sam’s stranger is leaning against the locked doors, hands tucked in the pockets of his battered leather jacket. Without the darkness to hide behind, Sam finally sees his face for more than a fleeting moment, and he’s struck again by how handsome it is; supermodel gorgeous, and an expression that says he’s well aware. 

“No, no,” he says. “Keep doing what you're doing, by all means. Don’t rush on my account.” 

Sam doesn’t dare turn around again. His grip on the Bible feels sweaty and he’s paranoid he’s going to drop it any second. He pulls it closer, gripping it to his chest like a shield. “When people show up at my church so late, there’s usually a reason behind it.” 

The stranger shifts, straightening on his feet. “You’re not wrong,” he says. He closes the distance between them, and Sam fights the urge to back away. Up close, Sam is again hit with a strange feeling of deja vu, as if he should recognize this face staring back at him. “You’ve been staying awful late the past couple of nights, haven’t you?” 

Chills chase down Sam’s spine at the realization that yes, he has been watched after all. He strives to keep his face impassive. “I’ve had a lot to do.” 

“In a podunk church like this?” asks the stranger pleasantly, glancing around the ramshackled little building. “Can’t imagine what.” 

Sam tightens his jaw. Unlike his house, this feels like home territory, and he finds the courage to ask, “What do you want?” 

The stranger looks back to him and smiles. “Can’t I just want to keep your company?” 

“What do you want with _me?”_ Sam asks. “Why are you following me?” 

“That’s a dangerous question, Sammy,” the man says. “But didn’t I say before? I’m just looking out for you.” 

Irritation prickles at Sam’s skin. “I’m a grown man,” he says. “I don’t need the protection of a stranger to handle myself, I promise you.” 

To his annoyance, the man actually laughs. He reaches out, mussing Sam’s hair like he’s a child and not a good few inches taller than him. “Glad to see this place hasn’t dimmed your spirit,” he says. “Got some fire in you, huh? I’m glad. I’d have been very disappointed if you were just a boring priest.” 

Sam bats his hand away. “Stop touching me,” he snaps. The uncertainty of the past few days has eaten away at his instinctual fear and confusion, and every time the stranger lays hands on him he feels the uncontrollable tug in his gut, distracting and confusing. “If you need something from me, I can only give it to you if you tell me what it is.” 

The stranger’s brows arch and his full lips quirk into a smile. “You want to give it to me, Sammy? Is that what you want?” 

Sam’s comment had been innocent and frustrated, but the question from the stranger’s mouth is low and teasing, a seductive lure to wind him up. It works. The back of Sam’s neck flushes deeply, and he can’t help but back up a step, bumping into the pew behind him. The stranger steps in closer, and Sam feels cornered.

“I want you to tell me who you are,” he says, voice unsteady. 

The stranger’s hands reach out, clasping the back of the pew either side of Sam, boxing him in. He’s near enough to smell that stomach-turning scent on him again; motor oil, aftershave, _blood._

“My name’s Dean,” he says, breath hot on Sam’s face. “And I’ve wanted to meet you for so, so long, Sammy, you have no idea.” 

His words have hooks to them, and Sam feels the way they sink into his skin, digging in deep enough that he feels it all the way to his core, to the unclean place inside of him he tries to keep buried. Sam’s heart is beating like a jackhammer again, and he clutches the Bible tighter. 

“Dean,” he says, a little stupidly. 

Dean grins. It’s crooked. It’s unkind. It feels like looking into a mirror, although Sam doesn’t know _why._

“Sammy,” Dean says, reaching up to cup Sam’s face again, touch tender. “I’ve waited a long time to hear you say my name like that.” 

“Like what?” Sam asks.

Dean’s eyes flicker closed and then open again, as if basking in something. A thumb strokes over Sam’s cheekbones. “Like it’s the only thing that matters” he says, and leans forward to kiss him. 

Sam is struck dumb. Dean’s mouth is hot against his, hungry and demanding. The shock of it renders him still as stone, his brain tripping over itself as it tries to process what’s happening. Dean presses in closer, hands on Sam’s waist, shoving Sam right up against the wood behind him, and - finally - Sam’s brain comes back online. 

“What are you doing?” he gasps, ripping his head to the side and turning his mouth away. “Stop -” 

Dean’s hands rise to catch his cheeks, forcibly holding him in place even as Sam tries to fight against it. He pries Sam’s mouth open easily, slipping his tongue inside. Sam’s heart is thunder in his ears, and he feels trapped, like Dean is a force of nature bearing down on him, as immovable as the universe itself. 

Behind him, a statue of Christ looms on his cross, watching with marble-carved eyes as Sam is defiled in his home. The thought is too much for him. Panicked, Sam does the only thing he can think of; he bites down on Dean’s tongue. 

Hot, iron blood floods his mouth and Dean pulls back, hissing. Sam stays where he is, chest heaving as he looks at him with big eyes. He can feel something warm and wet trickling down from the corner of his mouth, and he can’t bring himself to check whether it is clear or red. 

“Damn, Sammy,” Dean says, wiping the back of his wrist across his mouth, looking down at the red smear it leaves across his skin. “That’s some bite you have in you.” 

When Dean looks back up, his eyes are pitch black.

“Oh my God,” Sam says faintly. 

Dean grins. “Not quite,” he says, and reaches for Sam again.

The warmth of Dean’s blood still fills his mouth, and panic follows on its heels. Sam tries to back up further, but he’s backed as far as he can go. Dean’s hands draw closer, and, with nothing else at hand, Sam shoves him as hard as he can. 

Sam’s push does nothing. The Bible that connects with Dean’s hand is another story entirely. 

A horrible hissing fills the air and Sam is immediately hit with the scent of burning meat. Dean curses, pulling back quick but not quick enough that Sam doesn’t see the mark seared into his hand, highlighted in smudged blood. Sam’s Bible thuds to the floor between them. 

Sam did not sit through twenty-five years of Bible classes not to recognize such a thing for what it is. 

“You’re a demon,” he says numbly, unable to tear his eyes away from where Dean’s skin is blistering. 

Dean sighs. “Sure,” he says. “In the same way the consciousness of an insect could be equal to a human being.” 

This thing has been inside Sam’s house - has had his _tongue_ in Sam’s _mouth._

 _Unclean,_ whispers that rasping voice buried deep in Sam’s heart. _He’s unclean, just like you._

Dean rubs at his burnt hand, frowning, and Sam uses the distraction to try and slip past him out into the aisle. It doesn’t work. Sam barely has a foot free from between the pews when he feels fingers close in his hair, yanking him backwards so brutally that he nearly loses his footing. He gasps, reaching up to cling to Dean’s wrist as he’s dragged unceremoniously backwards. 

“None of that,” Dean warns as Sam tries and fails to twist away. “You don’t really think you can outrun me, do you? Come on, Sammy. You’re not that dumb.” 

“You can’t be here,” Sam hisses. His fingers scratch at Dean’s skin, leaving deep furrows behind, but Dean doesn’t so much as flinch. “This is holy ground - you can’t be here.” 

“And yet here I am,” Dean announces, turning Sam around and bending him over so that Sam has to fling his hands out to catch the back of the pew to stay upright. He feels Dean pressed right up against him, hands fisted in Sam’s robes as he presses his mouth right below the shell of Sam’s ear. “Let’s take a moment to calm down before you do something you regret, huh?”

Sam squeezes his eyes closed. “Are you going to kill me now?” 

Dean sighs. The hands holding Sam loosen, one skating up to brush Sam’s hair aside so that Dean can lay an almost tender kiss on the nape of his neck, just above his collar. “Didn’t I say I wouldn’t?” he says. “You’ve gotta start listening to me. You’re getting this backwards. I’m here to look out for you, remember?” 

Sam laughs but doesn’t dare try to turn around. “Is this what you call looking after me? Pinning me down in my own church?” 

“You didn’t give me a choice, Sammy,” Dean says in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. “You were trying to run. Couldn’t let you do that.” 

Sam has no idea what to make of that. The things Dean says to him are both sweet and chilling and make absolutely no sense at all. To Dean, they seem to be perfectly logical - to Sam, it’s like playing chess blindfolded. 

“What do you _want?”_ Sam grits from between his teeth. He’s shaking now. He can’t help it. The weight of Dean on his back is paralyzing. 

Dean makes a contemplative noise and sets his face in Sam’s shoulders, breathing in deeply. “A lot of things,” he says. “I didn’t understand that before. I used to think I was so selfless. That all I wanted to do was look out for little Sammy - just make sure you were okay. The amount of hours I spent sitting on the street, looking through your window… I could have challenged your beloved Christ for martyrdom.” 

“Little Sammy?” Sam repeats, incredulous. 

Dean ignores him. His hands slip down to settle on Sam’s hips, undeniably possessive. “I know better now. I can acknowledge the kind of thoughts that the Dean before wouldn’t.” 

Sam doesn’t want to ask. He does anyway. “What?” 

He feels Dean smile against his skin, right at his jaw. The hands on his hips are like a vice. In his ear, Dean whispers, “I’ve always thought you looked real good on your knees, Father.” 

Sam’s heart trips in his chest. Before he can say anything else, one of Dean’s hands travels up his back, shoving him harshly so that Sam has to spread his legs to stay upright. Immediately, he feels his robes being rucked up around his hips, Dean’s hands at his belt. The clack of it sliding free sends a jolt of panic barreling down his spine. 

“Wait!” Sam reaches down, gripping Dean’s wrists, but it doesn’t even make him pause. The sound of his buttons popping free, the hiss of his zipper, fills the quiet church. “Dean, wait, wait - stop!” 

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, like the prayer that Sam knows he can’t utter, and slips a hand inside Sam’s trousers to grip his dick. 

Sam gasps, eyes wide. He can’t see anything but the flickering candles ringing the altar in front of him, the empty expanse of the church watched over by the unmoving eyes of the carving of God’s son above the pulpit. Dean’s hands on him are cold, but his breath on Sam’s neck is furiously hot. 

“Shh, it’s fine,” Dean says, his grip on Sam moving slowly, like he’s savoring it. “Just let me take care of you, okay? Just let me touch you - just wanna touch you.” 

Sam can’t move - he’s pinned down, weighted by the immovable blanket of the demon at his back. He’s a stranger in his own skin, pleasure and horror sparking through him in equal measure, lighting along his nerves like hellfire. Dean keeps talking, whispering words that Sam struggles to catch in his ear, and takes Sam apart piece by piece. 

His blood feels like it’s boiling - his dirty, unclean blood. Inside of him, that awful emptiness sighs, and even as Sam struggles he feels the gape of it closing up for the first time in decades, slowly whittled down by the familiarity of Dean’s touch, the desire branded into him by hungry fingers and desperate teeth sinking into the side of his neck. 

Sam does not want this. He does not want to be defiled by a demon in his own church with the eyes of Christ looking down at him in contempt. 

Sam does not _want_ this. 

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean sighs into the mark he’s left in Sam’s flesh. “We both know that’s a lie, don’t we?” 

Dean’s hand twists, and Sam comes like that - breathless, clinging onto the pew before him for balance as ecstasy renders his head quiet for the first time in his miserable life. 

Sam sags in Dean’s hold, kept from the floor only by Dean’s arm around his waist. He’s gasping, sweat sticking his collar like a second skin. He can feel the hard line of Dean’s erection pressed against his ass, and he has a moment of fear that Dean is going to keep going, is _really_ going to bend Sam in half and take him, but he just presses a tender kiss to the top of Sam’s messy hair and steps back. 

Without him, Sam has to cling to the pew to stay upright, his robes falling back down to cover his loose trousers and softening cock. 

“That’s a good look on you,” Dean says from behind him, sounding immensely satisfied. 

With shaky hands, Sam straightens himself as slowly as he can. It takes him two tries to notch his belt again. “So is this what you wanted from the start?” he asks, in a voice that feels raw. “To… humiliate me?” 

“Don’t be like that, Sammy,” Dean says, reaching out to snag Sam’s arm, forcibly turning him around. “You had a good time, didn’t you?” 

Sam leans back against the pew, jaw tight. “I think you should go.” 

“What? You going to get on the phone to Rome and tell them a demon had you in your own church? Want to tell them how loud you moaned when I put my teeth in you too?” 

Sam doesn’t remember moaning. Dean could be lying. Dean probably _is_ lying. Sam feels himself bristling defensively all the same. 

“Either kill me or get out,” Sam spits. “I’m fed up with whatever games you’re playing.” 

Dean frowns. “What’s with this death wish of yours? How many times do I gotta say I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You don’t want to hurt me?” Sam repeats, voice cracking in disbelief. “You just - just…” He can’t bring himself to say it. “Just _go.”_

Dean rolls his eyes, tucking his hands loosely into the pockets of his beaten leather jacket. Sam tries hard not to think about how they’d been on him only moments ago. “You sure can get bitchy, can’t you? Fine, if that’ll make you feel better,” he says. He reaches out, ignoring Sam’s flinch as he pats him gently on the cheek. “I’ll be back, Sammy.” 

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but between one breath and the next Dean is gone. Sam stares blankly at the spot where he’d been seconds before. Nothing remains to indicate that he’d been here at all except the echo of his touch on Sam’s skin and the hint of his aftershave in the air. 

Slowly, Sam slips out from between the pews, looking towards the doors. They remain firmly shut, and Sam is alone in his sanctuary with only his ragged breathing and the watchful eyes of Christ for company. 

\--

It takes Sam the better part of the night to work up the courage to call Pastor Jim. 

At home, his house is empty. There’s no sign of Dean anywhere, but Sam can’t help but flinch at every innocuous noise, jumping at shadows. Every time he closes his eyes, he remembers the slide of Dean’s mouth against his, the way Sam had pressed desperately back against him as he’d come in his pants. 

He remembers the hiss of a demon’s flesh burning at the touch of something holy. 

Pastor Jim picks up after the third ring, happy to hear from him outside their weekly call. _“Sam,”_ he says. _“This is a pleasant surprise.”_

“Yeah, it’s, um.” Sam wishes he’d rehearsed what he planned on saying. His back is to the wide window that looms over his kitchen cabinets, and he feels like he’s being watched but when he turns to look he sees nothing outside by the blackness of the night. “Sorry to bother you so late.” 

_“You’re never a bother, Sam, you know that,”_ Pastor Jim says. _“But is everything okay? You don’t sound well.”_

Is everything okay? _Is everything okay?_ Again, Sam wonders how his whole life can be teetering on such an awful precipice while the world continues to spin in ignorance. 

“Yes,” he says. Then, hesitating, admits, “No. It’s complicated. I had something I wanted to ask you?” 

_“Of course, ask away.”_

Carefully, Sam asks, “Do you know anybody named Dean?” 

The other end of the line goes abruptly silent. Sam stands there, hand braced against the wall to keep himself steady, phone pressed to his ear. His skin is still crawling with the remnants of Dean’s touch. He’d had a shower as soon as he got home, had scrubbed himself raw, but it’d changed nothing. 

Sam feels the ghost of it everywhere.

Finally, Pastor Jim says, _“I’m not sure, that’s a very common name. Why do you ask?”_

Sam purses his lips. There it is again. Pastor Jim’s not quite lies, always skirting the edge of some unfathomable secret that Sam doesn’t understand and can’t ask about. 

“Okay,” Sam says, “because I met somebody, and he seems to know me.” 

He hears Pastor Jim take in a sharp breath. _“Did he say anything to you?”_ he asks, sounding more urgent now. 

_He’s stalking me,_ Sam thinks. _He’s stalking me, and I’m pretty sure he’s not human._

“A little bit,” Sam says. “Nothing important.” 

_“Sam, if he approaches you again, call me,”_ Pastor Jim says. _“I’m serious. You might not be safe.”_

Strangely, of all the terrible, awful things Sam feels, unsafe isn’t one of them. He feels unclean, he feels stretched thin, he feels _seen_ in a way he has never felt before. But he doesn’t feel unsafe. He thinks of Dean’s hands on him, of that rough voice in his ear whispering, _just wanna keep you safe, Sammy._

“Who is he?” Sam asks. “Why are you so worried?” 

_“An old acquaintance,”_ Pastor Jim says. _“You don’t need to know anything more. Just be careful and stay safe, okay?”_

Sam bites back the irritation of, once again, being brushed aside in his own life. “Yes, Father,” he says, and spitefully hangs up. 

Again, the house is silent around him. Somewhere out there is a demon who wants more from Sam than knows what to do with. 

His house is empty, and Sam has never felt so alone. 

\--

Sam does not see Dean again for the rest of the week. 

He looks for him, keeps an eye to the darkest place of every room he enters, and is ever reluctant to turn his back. When he’s at his church, he keeps a Bible close by, and at home he digs old crucifixes from the cupboard and rehomes them somewhere more immediately reachable. 

At night, he dreams of him too. _I always thought you looked real good on your knees, Father,_ Dean whispers, a hand in Sam’s hair, and Sam goes, sinking down like he’s praying for benediction, Dean’s thumb pressing his mouth open. When he wakes, his heart is pounding and his skin _aches_ at the memory of the stolen intimacy.

When he showers lately, the water is ice cold.

Sam doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him, only that with each day he feels like the iron wall he’s erected erodes further and further until all the ugly parts of himself he’s tried so hard to contain are leaking out like blood. 

Even his parishioners notice, finally. 

“Are you alright, Father?” asks old Mrs. McCready who runs the matchbox sized general store in town, peering up at him through her reading glasses as he escorts her to the door after mass. “You’ve seemed so distant lately, you know? Even your sermons seem emptier.” 

Sam, who is no longer surprised to hear the emptiness that has devoured him from birth is finally seeping into the one thing meant to hold him together, smiles. “I’m fine,” he lies. “There’s nothing to worry about at all. See you next week, Mrs. McCready.” 

He closes the door behind her, shutting himself away in the silence of his sanctuary. It’s still light out, but the winter months have been spreading their shadowed fingers earlier and earlier, and Sam knows by the time he leaves, it’ll be dark.

It doesn’t bother him as much as it should. 

He busies himself tidying the church, paying careful attention to the door every time he turns his back. Nobody calls his name, no hands touch his waist. By the time Sam slinks into the small corner office barely bigger than a broom closet, he feels exhausted by the sheer weight of his unmet expectations. 

There’s a Bible fanned open on his desk, the one Pastor Jim first gifted him when he chose this path, and the pages are crinkled with age and love. He has some half-finished notes for his next sermon scattered beside it, but when Sam sinks into his chair and picks up his pen, he finds his head totally empty, can think of nothing he’d like to do _less._

Tentatively, he reaches out and eases the Bible closed. The gossamer cross embossed on the cover glimmers in the lowlight. Sam’s palm does not burn at the touch. 

He’s so tired. He can’t remember the last time he slept the night through. His house no longer feels like welcome territory, and he wakes at every creak or groan from the walls. 

The church is the safest place he has now, and even that isn’t very safe at all. 

The worry and exhaustion is too much. Sam leans forward, folding his arms atop the desk and resting his head. If any of his parishioners come looking, they know where to find him. After everything, he thinks he’s entitled to a rest, just a small one, just for a moment. 

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his office is pitch black. 

Sam blinks, dazed, and makes to sit upright. His head hurts and his mouth is gummy from excess sleep. He has no idea how much time has passed. Through the crack in the door back into the church, he can see the flicker of candles he does not remember lighting. 

Frowning, Sam manages to get to his feet, crossing the creaky floor and easing open the ajar door.

It is not empty. Standing before the cross high on the wall is Dean, hands in his pocket as he surveys it with a contemplative expression. The candles lining the shelf that brackets the walls are dripping thick wax. When Sam chances a glance past Dean and out a window, all he can see is darkness. 

“Hey Sammy,” Dean says, refusing to break his stare off with Christ. “Sleep well?” 

Sam swallows thickly. He clutches the edge of the doorway and debates whether he could slip back into his office and lock the door before Dean catches him. He doesn’t try. Something tells him a rusted deadbolt would do very little. “Where have you been?” 

Dean glances at him, smiling roguishly. “What’s this? Did you miss me?” 

“No, I…” Sam doesn’t know how to explain it. “Were you still following me?” 

“I had some things I needed to do,” he says. “But you don’t need to worry about that. Everything’s fine now, Sammy.” 

“Don’t call me that. That’s not my name.” 

“Sure,” Dean says. He pulls a hand free from his pocket, holding it out to Sam. “Come here.” 

Sam stays where he is. His heart is racing in his chest. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “You can come over here, or I can come over there. Your choice, but I promise one option is significantly better for you than the other.” 

Sam grits his teeth. Reluctantly, he peels himself away from the door. It takes no more than a few steps to reach Dean, but it feels like miles, an exalted march uphill. When his fingers graze Dean’s palm he frowns, taken aback by something wet and sticky on his skin. Before he can jerk away Dean grabs his wrist, reeling him in so Sam has no choice but to go with him or fall. 

“That’s more like it,” Dean says as he presses Sam’s back to his chest, wrapping his arms around him, chin propped contentedly on Sam’s shoulder. It’s such an intimate, romantic position that Sam feels a flush crawling up his neck, but he knows better than to fight back by now. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Sam stares blankly forward and tries not to be conscious of the demon at his back. “I asked about you.” 

“Oh?” Dean’s tone is amused. Sam’s not sure that’s a good sign. 

“I was told not to trust you,” he says. “That you would hurt me.” 

Dean sighs, loud and put upon. He raises one hand to cup Sam’s jaw, jerking his head to the side so he can press his lips against Sam’s cheek. “How long until you trust me, Sammy? I’d never. Not you, never you.” 

Sam shivers. “You’re a demon.” 

“Sure am,” Dean agrees. His mouth moves lower to press at Sam’s throat. 

“Last time you - that was -” 

“Good, right?” Dean’s teeth graze his skin, sending an electric shock down his spine. The bite mark embedded in Sam’s shoulder aches. Dean’s other hand is at his stomach, pressing Sam back into him. “You seemed to like it, at least.” 

Sam squeezes his eyes shut. “I didn’t. I don’t.” 

Dean laughs. “Why don’t you try a better lie next time, Sammy.” His hand drops, heel of his palm pressing against where Sam is half hard beneath his robes. “It’s okay to like it, you know? You should. You’re supposed to.”

Sam’s breath stutters out of him. He reaches down, snagging Dean’s wrist, trying and failing to pull him away. _“Stop -”_

Dean spins him around in the cage of his arm so quick that Sam is almost dizzy, frantically grasping at Dean’s jacket to keep his feet. He can see the blackness of Dean’s eyes, the sharp edge of his jaw, the enticing roughness of his mouth. Dean’s hands are on his waist, and he’s walking Sam backwards, bumping him into the wall with so much force that the looming cross above them wobbles, threatening to fall.

“Say it like you mean it and I’ll consider,” Dean says, and then he’s kissing Sam.

Dean kisses like nobody else Sam knows. It’s hungry and possessive, Dean’s hands pinning him in place, but the press of his mouth is warm and welcoming too; turning an attack into an artform, making Sam gasp as his head spins and he struggles to figure out whether he should be pushing him away or kissing back. 

This is a church. Sam is a priest. Dean is a demon. None of this is _right._

“Sam,” Dean groans, one of his hands coming up to slip into Sam’s hair. He pulls back, setting his mouth against Sam’s cheek as he breathes out in a long whisper, clutching Sam like something fragile and precious. “God, _Sammy.”_

Sam has never heard somebody call his name like that before. Has never had somebody _want_ him so much. 

He thinks of the crumpled family photo he keeps tucked between the pages of his Bible; the last gift to an abandoned child, unloved and forgotten. He thinks about so many years of watching the world around him move like a foreign life form, a man trapped in a cave trying to discern normalcy from the shadows cast on the wall and never quite managing to get it _right._

Nobody has ever looked at Sam the way Dean does. Nobody has ever looked at him at all. 

Heart pounding, Sam reaches up to cup Dean’s face and kisses him. 

The sound Dean makes against his mouth could found a whole new religion. Instantly, Dean is pressing into him, hands wandering everywhere, kissing back desperately. Sam can barely breathe. Everything is happening too fast and too much. Dean’s hands are unbuttoning his robes, loosening his collar, and when he pulls Sam is helpless but to raise his arms and let Dean strip him. 

His robes and collar hit the floor, and his shirt follows moments later. Sam shivers, feeling naked in a way he can never remember being before, but Dean’s eyes are reverent even as they cloud black. 

“Look at you,” he whispers, adoring. The spread of his fingers press against Sam’s ribs, and again Sam feels that unfamiliar wetness, but when he tries to look down Dean kisses him again, almost gentle. “Gorgeous. Of course you are. I knew you would be.” 

“Dean,” Sam gasps, reaching up to grab at his shoulders. “Not here, can’t we -” 

Dean seizes Sam’s hands before he can shove him away, slamming them to the wall either side of him in a mockery of God’s son on his cross above. Sam’s breath flees from him, and he knows he should be terrified but the lurch in his gut feels like something else entirely. Dean leans in, nosing at Sam’s jaw. “Why not?” he murmurs. “I like how you look against the wall.” 

Sam thinks about arguing, but he supposes at this point he’s already been defiled here once. What’s a little more sacrilege? 

Dean’s knee slips between his legs, pressing ruthlessly and making Sam hiss. “What do you think, Sammy? How far will you let me go?” 

It takes some effort, but Sam manages to say, “Could I stop you?” 

Dean grins. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he kisses him again, hot enough to burn. Sam lets himself be swept along with it. At this point he’s worried that _he_ couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. He’s addicted to the way Dean’s worship makes him feel, the way he pushes back the void that’s been festering inside of Sam his whole life. 

They sink to the floor, and Dean’s hands snap free Sam’s belt, unbutton his trousers. He pins Sam against the freezing floorboards, straddling him as his hands rove over every bare inch of Sam’s skin; laying his claim like it’s his God given right. Sam’s skin prickles in the wake of his touch, cold and tacky, and finally Sam finds the strength to get his elbows beneath him and see what’s been haunting him since his fingertips first graced Dean’s palm. 

What he sees makes his heart stutter to a halt. 

Sam’s body is covered in red. Bloody handprints bracket his ribs, trails smeared casually across his skin. He can see every place Dean has touched him by the echo left behind. He can feel it on his face too, where Dean had held him still to be kissed. Shaking, he reaches up and when he scrapes his fingers down his cheek they come back scarlet. 

He looks like a crime scene; he looks like the monsters he’s been warned about his whole life. 

“Hey,” Dean says above him, his body heavy on Sam’s waist. He reaches down and finally Sam sees what he hadn’t noticed before - the way Dean’s palms glint red in the flashing candlelight. 

Sam goes cold and panic kicks in. 

He bucks, trying to knock Dean away but he’s as immovable as stone. When Sam goes to roll over, try and pull himself with scrambling fingers across the floor, Dean’s hands slam into his shoulders and hold him down. Sam pictures the bloodstains blooming like bruises beneath his touch and bucks again, harder this time.

“Let me go!” he snaps. “Get off, get off. What did you _do?”_

“Sammy, calm down,” Dean coaxes, as if Sam is being unreasonable. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep that up.” 

Fear tastes sour on Sam’s tongue. “You mean _you’re_ going to hurt me.” 

Dean’s pretty face bleeds into a frown. “Of course not,” he says. “You just need to calm down, okay?” 

Sam spits at him but it misses. Dean doesn’t even flinch. “Who’s blood is that, Dean? _Who’s blood is that?”_

One of Dean’s hands leaves his shoulder to stroke Sam’s cheek. He tries to jerk away but there’s nowhere to go. “I was just looking out for you,” he says. His thumb slips down to sit on Sam’s bottom lip, prying his mouth open. Sam can taste iron. “It’s my job to look out for you.” 

“Did you _kill_ somebody for me?” Sam demands. 

Dean’s not listening to him. He’s staring, distracted by Sam’s parted mouth. “Gotta look out for you,” he mutters again, and leans down to kiss him.

Sam wants to close his mouth and push him away, but his stupid, traitorous brain doesn’t understand. It feels Dean against him and it thinks ‘ _yes this’._ It doesn’t matter that Dean has showed up to his church with blood on his hands; all that matters is that Dean showed up at all, and even though Sam is _horrified,_ when Dean kisses him his brain has wired itself to kiss back. 

“You don’t get it, Sammy,” Dean mutters between kisses, even as Sam lays there, winded and shaking. “People keep trying to keep you away from me, keep trying to hurt you. I can’t have that. You’re not even meant to be here.” 

Dean pulls back just enough that Sam can see his eyes. They’re black again, like a storm cloud. They don’t scare him half as much as the adoration on Dean’s face. He licks his lips. “Where am I meant to be then?” 

“With me,” Dean says, as if it’s obvious, and sinks his hands into Sam’s pants. 

Sam gasps, head hitting the floor as he stares up at the dome of the ceiling above them. He feels like his whole world is spinning. Dean’s hands are rough, nothing at all like Sam’s; hands more used to violence than praying. Without Dean holding him down, he could escape now, make a run for the door or any of the countless holy things that might hurt something like Dean. 

He’s in a church. If he really wanted to, he could find _something_ to make him burn. 

Sam screws his eyes shut, folding his arms over his face as Dean slowly and methodically strips him naked and sets about learning every inch of his skin.

There had been a time before Sam joined the church where he’d thought about what intimacy of this level might feel like. He’d never really been able to imagine it, couldn’t bring himself to believe the lie that anybody would ever want this from him. His imagination had never managed to stumble past the faint notion of warm hands on his skin, pleasurable but distant, a means to an end rather than the act as the goal itself. 

It’s nothing like that at all. For somebody who has the strength to snap Sam in two, Dean is tender to the point of distraction; he mouths down Sam’s stomach and the hands that ghost down his thighs are lukewarm, unlike any human body Sam has ever touched. When Sam spreads his thighs for him, Dean lets out a punched out groan, scraping his nails down and making him jerk in the wake of it. 

When Dean’s mouth settles around him, Sam swears for the first time in all his life. 

Dean works him like that for what feels like an eon, winding him up until Sam thinks he might burst and then pulling away again, sitting back on his heels to look over him with a satisfied expression on his face. His lips are swollen and red, and he cracks his jaw in a way that seems positively obscene. He’s still fully dressed, but Sam can see that he’s hard, straining in his jeans, and it makes him flush, skin turning pink beneath the uncountable bloodstains left behind in Dean’s fingerprints. 

“Sammy,” Dean says. “You have no idea how good you look. If this is what I’ve been waiting for, it was worth it.” 

Sam - who’s naked and shivering on the floor, dick puddling precome on his stomach - feels his patience snap. “If you’re not going to keep going -” 

Dean reaches up, smothering Sam’s mouth with one of his broad palms. Sam glares at him, mutinous, but Dean only grins. “Trust me,” he purrs. “You really don’t have to worry about that.” 

He doesn’t. It turns out he has to worry about something else entirely, because once Dean _really_ gets going, it turns out he doesn’t _shut up._

“How do you think your little flock would feel if they could see you like this?” Dean asks, conversational if not for the fact his fingers are spearing Sam open, the sound they make wet and indignant. “On the floor of your own church, covered in my touch, writhing on my fingers? You’re begging for it, aren’t you? I told you that you would.” 

Somehow, despite the fact Sam’s brain feels like it’s leaking out his ears, he can hear the punch of Dean’s words clearly. The humiliation of it is enough to kill him, but he can’t do anything to stop it, can only squirm into Dean’s touch, gasping every time he slips a new finger inside, his mouth hot against Sam’s ear. 

He’s barely speaking above a whisper. It echoes throughout the whole church regardless. 

“Good little Sammy who’s never done any wrong in his whole life,” Dean says as his fingers hit a place inside of Sam that makes him choke. “Cursing and crying and -” 

“I’m not _crying,”_ Sam manages to grit out. He has one hand caught in Dean’s shirt, and he tightens it, dragging him in closer so he can bite at his mouth. “And you need to _shut up.”_

Dean laughs. Up close, Sam can see that his front of smooth talking is just that - a front. The look in his eyes is almost deranged, and the hands he presses into Sam are both covetous and shaky. It’s like he can hardly hold himself back. Sam thinks about what it’d be like if Dean _snapped_ and feels his dick twitch. 

“You know what I need, Sammy?” Dean asks, twisting his fingers and making Sam cry out again. “This. I’ve always needed this. I can’t believe that I thought I was above it for so long.” 

Sam can feel something cresting inside of him, and he clutches at Dean, shameless, but before it can peak Dean’s fingers slip free from him and it abates. Frustrated, he drops back to the floor, arms over his face, and hisses, _“Dean.”_

He’s not looking but he can hear a zipper dragging down. Dean’s hands fall to his thighs, spreading them apart as he settles between them. Sam realizes what’s about to happen and his heart kicks up several notches. 

Sam feels like he’s going to puke. He feels like he’s going to explode. He wants Dean to fuck him so much he thinks he might die if he doesn’t. 

“You’re okay, Sammy,” Dean says, voice a now familiar rough rumble. “I’ve got you, you’re okay.” 

Something hot and hard bumps against him, between his legs. Sam knows exactly what it is. He swallows. “Dean -” 

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, and pushes into him. 

It feels - well, it feels like he’s being split in half. Sam gasps, back snapping straight and hands falling from his face as his eyes open. There’s pain - of course there’s pain - but the exhilaration of it turns it into something hot and welcome, chasing along his nerves like a shock. Sam feels like with Dean inside of there’s no room for anything else; not breath or thought or religion. Sam’s whole world has narrowed to the sensation of Dean and Dean alone. 

“Oh, that’s a good expression,” Dean says. He brushes Sam’s sweaty hair away from his face. “Damn, Sammy, would you look at you.”

Sam couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. It’s taking all he can to breathe. Dean barely gives him a moment to adjust before he starts moving; slowly at first, and then, when it becomes apparent that Sam isn’t going to break, faster and deeper. And somehow he keeps _talking,_ even as Sam gasps and grabs at him, rocking with his every move and tries not to pass out. 

“I never could figure it out,” Dean says. “Why they sent you away; why they kept you from me. Then it clicked.” His hand is in Sam’s hair, tugging his head to the side so that he can mouth at the bite he’d left only last week. “They knew, all of them. What I would want to do to you. What I _would_ do to you.”

“Dean, what are you - _oh.”_ Sam shivers, wrapping his legs tightly around Dean’s waist, struggling to breath. “Keep going, please, _fuck.”_

Dean bears him down the floor and fucks him harder and _harder._ The slap of his hips is almost feral and the grip on Sam’s chin is so bruising that it nearly makes Sam come right then and there. “I didn’t get it when I was human, but I think I do now.” 

Sam’s so close. _He’s so close._ He can feel it in the curl of his toes, in every inch of his bones. His brain is a scrambled mess, and he gasps, “What?” 

Dean’s hips slam into him again, grinding down, hard and vicious, _merciless,_ and he says, “That it ain’t normal to want to bend your baby brother over in his own church and fuck him ‘till he _screams.”_

Sam’s heart stops. He can’t breathe. _“What?”_

“Sammy,” Dean grunts, his hand pressing against the tender stretch of Sam’s throat. “Don’t you get it by now? You’re _mine.”_

Sam’s orgasm hits like a revelation. He gasps, head thrown back and shaking legs tight around Dean’s waist. Distantly, he can feel Dean coming inside of him, the crush of his body atop him, and Sam’s vision goes black with the intensity of it. 

In his head, he can hear the ringing of Dean’s voice: _baby brother, baby brother, baby brother -_

Dean’s hands are on him, smoothing along Sam’s stained skin, pulling him close so that Dean can press his lips to his temple, his cheek, his throat. The way he’s touching Sam now, you’d never think he just fucked him halfway through the floor. His words are stuck in Sam’s head, repeating on an endless loop, and he wants to pull away, to create some kind of distance between them, but he’s exhausted and he’s body won’t listen to him. He thinks he might be shaking. 

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean says as his hand smooths through Sam’s hair. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m never gonna hurt you. I’m your brother, it’s my job to take care of you. I’m _always_ going to take care of you.” 

Dean’s come is still dripping from between Sam’s thighs, and when he tilts his head he sees the true color of Dean’s eyes for the first time all night. They’re the same green that stares back at him from the crumpled photograph of a family he’d thought dead - the same green that stares back at him from the mirror. 

He wonders how he never noticed that before. 

“My family’s dead,” Sam rasps. “There was - there was a house fire. I was the only one who made it out.” 

Dean shakes his head. “Is that what they told you?” he asks gently. The knuckles of his hand are stroking along Sam’s cheek. 

“It’s the truth,” Sam insists. 

“Well, I guess some of it was,” Dean says. “There was a house fire, Sammy. A demon, it killed our mom and -” 

Sam’s heart turns. The emptiness is back, yawning wider with Dean’s every word. “No -” 

“It changed you, perfected what was already perfect, and dad -” 

_“Stop -”_

“Dad gave you up because he didn’t understand. He was afraid.” Dean’s eyes flash black. “He was afraid of you, afraid of _us,_ and he was _right -”_

“Dean,” Sam begs, voice cracking. “Please, stop. Don’t.” 

“The things you can _do,_ Sammy,” Dean says. “The things we can do together. I have so much to teach you, just you wait.” 

Sam tries to sit up and nearly falls, but Dean is there, sliding an arm around his back and easing him upright. Like this, Sam gets a good look at himself, covered in come and bruises and bloody fingerprints. He thinks it’s a wonder the church hasn’t come down atop him for this. 

He swallows and asks again, “Dean, who does the blood belong to?” 

Dean sighs, kissing the top of Sam’s head. “I think you know where, Sammy.” 

Sam squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks he ought to feel sick. He doesn’t. “What did you _do?”_

“They were trying to keep us apart,” Dean says. “They _did_ keep us apart. I can’t forgive something like that.” 

It’s not the answer Sam asked for, but it answers his question all the same. He stays where he is, slumped into Dean’s side, staring blankly at the empty pews that line his church, and waits for the horror and the grief to hit; the knowledge that he is everything he’s always feared and more. 

It does not. He realizes the awful, twisting feeling in his gut is _relief._

All his life he’s tried so, _so_ hard to play at normalcy, and he’s failed every time. Not once has he been able to plug up the sucking hole in his gut where he suspects his humanity ought to be. Now though, now he knows it’s not his fault - it’s never been his fault. 

Sam was never going to be normal. To be human. No matter how many Bibles he lays his hands on or how many sermons he gives; it was never going to be enough to purge whatever taint has consumed him. 

He should have known how fruitless it all was weeks ago now when he first saw Dean standing in his kitchen and he didn’t run, he didn’t scream. Instead, somewhere deep down, he thought, _I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet you._

Sam looks back at Dean - at his brother - and tentatively reaches up, curling a hand around the back of his neck. Dean looks first surprised and then delighted. It’s so easy to delight Dean, Sam’s finding. All he seems to need is a scrap of Sam’s attention and he thrives. 

“What do we do now?” Sam asks. 

Dean twists his head to kiss Sam’s wrist. “You’ll come with me,” he says, not a question. “We can’t stay here. They’ll be looking, and they can’t have you anymore.” 

Sam doesn’t know who he’s talking about, because it sure seems like Dean’s killed anybody in Sam’s life that would even realize he was gone. Still, the idea of going, of leaving behind this one-light town that Sam had been using to bridge the hole in his gut for far too long, fills him with both dread and hope. 

“And where would you take me?” he says.

“Does it matter?” Dean asks, and Sam realizes it does not. “So long as we’re together the rest is just details, Sammy.” 

\--

They burn the church. 

Dean has a scratched zippo in his pocket with the initials _JW_ engraved into the silver. He doesn’t even blink as he tosses it into the blaze, even though it looks like it might have been a much-loved thing not all that long ago. 

Sam’s church goes up like kindling. Inside is his Bible, his family photo, and his last chance to back out of this. He does not. He stands where he is, shivering and leaning into Dean’s side. He’s dressed only in an unbuttoned shirt and his black trousers with Dean’s leather jacket tossed about his shoulders. 

Once, Sam had thought a fire took everything from him. Now, it can finally give him back the only thing that matters. 

Next to him, the fire turns the green of Dean’s eyes yellow. Looking into them, Sam wonders if he looks the same; gold eyed at the start of a fresh world. Dean catches him looking and glances up, face twisting into a smile that looks half feral, half adoring. He holds out a hand. “Ready to go, Sammy?” 

Behind him, the last of Sam’s life is eaten by flames. There’s a creak followed by an earth-shattering crack and the cross peaking over the roof of the church loses its hold and topples into the hungry grip of the fire. Sam watches until it becomes too bright and he can’t watch for a moment more. 

He looks back to Dean. Dean wiggles his fingers at him, white teeth flashing.

Sam sucks in a deep breath, reaches out, and takes his brother’s bloodstained hand in his own. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not meant to portray an accurate representation of religion or the church. Please read it as a piece of incest fanfic and no more. It is also entirely dedicated to both wincest twitter for going OFF about priest!Sam, and ao3 user Cerberuss who deserves to see Sam get fucked in a church.


End file.
